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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411756">Eros and Dust</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye'>Emelye</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Bright Young Things</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Dubious Historicity, Explicit Language, Historical References, Homophobic Language, Implied/Referenced Anti-Semitism, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Let's not look too closely at the timeline, M/M, Original Character Death(s), Sequel, Spanish Civil War, The French Resistance, World War II</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-03</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 04:01:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>12,251</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25411756</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Emelye/pseuds/Emelye</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>His sleeper berth had gone mostly untouched; he had a devil of a time sleeping on trains, even those whose wheels were silent and unmoving as they were borne over the channel on a monstrous ferry. Instead, he’d passed most of the night sipping mediocre coffee from good china and trying to imagine how he was going to survive this most recent fall from grace to ever have anything resembling a good time again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Miles Maitland/Original Male Character</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Infinite gratitude to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeIsTicketyBoo">LifeIsTicketyBoo</a> for beta reading!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Mother said she’d send his things along just as soon as the police stopped being a beastly nuisance.</p><p>It was really rather good of her, Miles thought, given everything he’d put the poor thing through. It couldn’t be easy to read about one’s son in such a salacious tone. Certainly his father wouldn’t show any sympathy when he found out. </p><p>Lord Maitland did not approve of his son one bit. It hurt, once, back when that approval meant something to Miles. When he’d been a boy at Eton and his marks had earned prizes, his father had beamed with pride. On school holidays there had been shooting parties, and Miles, for a brief moment, had been every inch the little lordling his father had dreamed of siring, picking off braces of pheasant in his little tweed combinations. Miles was too young to remember when Edward left home, but he was certainly old enough at ten to recall when the telegram arrived to tell them all he had perished in the Battle at the Somme, and it had been vitally important to Miles, for a little while, at least, to assuage his parents’ grief by means of emulation. </p><p>Miles was discovered by the older boys sometime in D block and Miles discovered them right back. He stopped taking the train home after that, and when his father received the first school letter that wasn’t notifying him of works sent up for good and instead advised him that his heir was caught in a compromising position with a young duke, well, it was then he learned exactly how his mother had sewn up his legacy when his father attempted to disinherit and found he couldn’t without exposing several scandalous and mildly treasonous affairs of his own.</p><p>His mother mostly lived in London after that, and Miles had not been to the estate in Wiltshire since. His only contact with his father was the occasional letter excoriating his personal habits and reminding him that he was only still his heir by deint of having an equally devious mother who was undoubtedly to blame for his perversion.</p><p>The loss of his father’s good opinion was mostly just a dull ache now, easily medicated with good champagne and better company. </p><p>The train began to slow, the brakes singing their shrill, metallic song as the cars shuddered and jolted and lurched into the station. Miles lifted his head from the window and passed a hand over his face, well oiled with travel and two-day old macquillage. His clothing felt constricting and rumpled after so many hours on the train. His sleeper berth had gone mostly untouched; he had a devil of a time sleeping on trains, even those whose wheels were silent and unmoving as they were borne over the channel on a monstrous ferry. Instead, he’d passed most of the night sipping mediocre coffee from good china and trying to imagine how he was going to survive this most recent fall from grace to ever have anything resembling a good time again.</p><p>It was not at all how he would wish to make his grand entrance onto the continent, but there was little about this whole ghastly situation that was as it should have been. He <em>should</em> have been in England at some thrilling party with desperately interesting people, or, he supposed at this hour, curled up in some sumptuous hotel between a pair of muscular thighs with a broad chest for a pillow. </p><p>Damn Tiger for selling him out and damn Miles for loving him and damn the entire bloody mess! </p><p>Wheels ground to a halt and men in conservative suits and respectable hats began to fold their newspapers and stow their reading glasses. Ladies donned their gloves and straightened their pearls. Excited chatter rose to a din around them as travelers returned home or set off on their honeymoons or began adventures of all sorts. Crowds gathered on the platform, families and friends and lovers to welcome them. Somewhere amidst all that, Miles knew there would be a driver waiting for him. His mother had assured him of it. Miles straightened his own dark glasses and slipped out of the train.</p><p>There was no case or steamer trunk for him to manage and no need of finding a porter, which was perhaps the single silver lining in this entire nightmare of a journey. The driver, when Miles spotted him, was a middle aged man who looked as chauffeurs usually did: Grey about the temples, face lined but not weathered, uniform pressed but not costly. He wondered if there was a mold for them in an office somewhere that ordinary men would fit themselves into, and, with the application of heat and pressure, would have them all coming out more or less to specification, inspected and stamped with approval by the livery company.</p><p>“Monsieur Maitland,” he announced, his accent not as thick as Miles would have anticipated. Mother must have outdone herself.</p><p>“Yes, thank you,” he said.</p><p>The driver nodded and opened the rear door of the black saloon. The smell of the leather upholstery was both a balm and a wound unto itself. It wasn’t the stale air of the train, for which he was infinitely thankful, but the smell of leather always made him think of long drives with Tiger, and the association was unpleasant at the moment.</p><p>Miles rolled the window down for a refreshing gasp of coal exhaust.</p><p>“Do you require a hotel, sir?”</p><p>Miles perked up, realizing he’d once again been on the verge of falling asleep. “Hmm? Oh, no, thank you. I have an apartment in the seventh arrondissement.”</p><p>Miles' eyes closed again for what he thought was only a moment, but the driver cleared his throat and Miles realized they weren’t moving.</p><p>“Where am I taking you?” he asked, a bit less patience in his voice for the disgraced young man.</p><p>Despite his exhaustion, he had no desire to be alone with his thoughts for a single moment longer. There was nothing waiting for him but an empty apartment covered in dropcloth. His mother had offered help, but he hadn’t wanted the trouble of training a new butler. He much preferred staff who knew his habits straight off and let him be. No, he was a <em>tapette</em> young aristocrat in the only city in the world that wouldn’t prosecute him for being so, and everyone he loved was a world away in London. This was no time for sober reflection. </p><p>“Take me somewhere I can get <em>spectacularly</em> drunk.”</p><p> </p><p>The driver was most helpful. After his first night, Miles found all <em>sorts</em> of delightful places to have a drink or ten, and had since rarely, and only under duress, been forced to suffer exile in sobriety. </p><p>On that particular morning, the sun was a beastly thing, his curtains were horrid and inadequate to the task of keeping it at bay, and he rather thought the entire prospect of morning ought to have been ashamed of itself, in Miles’ rather lofty opinion. </p><p>His head screamed with agony as his arm reached out to find some sympathetic corner of blanket to draw over his face and only succeeded in knocking to the floor what he could correctly identify by sound alone as an empty champagne bottle. This gave Miles a moment’s pause as he did not precisely recall drinking champagne in bed, nor anything of the preceding evening past a few memorable bodies he encountered at a charming little bar near the Rue de Rivoli.</p><p>One such memorable body appeared to be displayed to good advantage next to him in the bed. Another, Miles noted, lay just beside the other, snoring lightly, skin pale and muscles appearing well-defined in the morning light. Miles had to admit he was more than a little impressed with himself. His own body was nothing to be ashamed of, but all the same, there was a bit of a chill and he rather blearily looked around for something to cover himself. </p><p>Spotting a silk robe across the room draped over the back of an obliging chair, Miles swung his legs over the edge of the bed and nearly fell as he stepped directly on another champagne bottle instead of the floor as intended. It shot from underneath his foot to ping off yet another empty green bottle and Miles began to grasp the scope of the night in question. He pulled the robe onto his shoulders and tied the sash loosely about his waist, thinking absently of answering nature’s call and wondering whether breakfast was <em>de rigueur</em> after <em>ménage à trois</em> when he opened the bedroom door and found the living room in a similar state of disarray.</p><p>The third memorable body was reclined in unconscious repose upon his sofa. There were quite a number of carnival masks and festive hats strewn about. Had there been a fancy dress party? Miles sat down upon a chair at the bar and reached for what looked like a half finished glass of champagne. He downed it quickly, feeling its restorative effects in short order. The bar was covered in a film of white powder, the provenance of which Miles could only speculate. He only hoped his compact hadn’t been too badly damaged in the struggle. He ran a finger through the remains and noticed a half filled absinthe dispenser upon the Louis Quatorze table and a number of empty glasses and spoons scattered about like bones after a savage feast.</p><p>The telephone rang and Miles nearly fell from his perch. The adonis in his living room slept on. Miles reached over the bar to answer, pulling the cord over and knocking over two more bottles in his wake.</p><p>“This is Miles,” he answered. A bit more subdued than his usual greeting, but given his mysterious evening there could be absolutely anyone down the line and he thought it best to be reserved.</p><p>“Miles, darling, how good to hear your voice!” his mother warbled cheerfully.</p><p>“Hello, Mother,” he replied, more than a little relieved. “How are you?”</p><p>“Oh, simply dreadful, if you must know,” she said. “The plans for my ball are absolutely in shambles. Lady Circumference has become a vegetarian, of all things, and my dressmaker died suddenly last week and I’ve now got to find someone to finish my gown, and wouldn’t you know every single stitch of it was done wrong and must be pulled out? She must have been fading for some time and I’d never have known if she hadn’t toppled over while pinning my hem. Imagine if she hadn’t died and the gown had simply gone to pieces there in the ballroom? What a scandal <em>that</em> would have been, I don’t mind telling you!”</p><p>“You’d have caused a sensation, I’m sure of it,” said Miles. “By the by, how are things in London? Have you heard any news of the old crowd? Only, I haven’t seemed to receive any post at all since I’ve been here, and I hate to be a bore, but you <em>did</em> make sure they all had my address, didn’t you?”</p><p>“What was that? I’m afraid I have to go. Chef is here with the new menu. Kisses, darling!”</p><p>“Mother? Mother!” It was no good. She’d rung off.</p><p>Miles hung the phone up in disgust.</p><p><em>Honestly</em>.</p><p>The lovely thing on his sofa groaned and blinked himself into the waking world. Miles smiled and waved from his seat. The young thing smiled back a bit dopily.</p><p>He’d have loved to have told Agatha about this. He did hope she was getting along alright, the dear thing, or poor Adam. He was so gloomy about Nina when Miles left. </p><p>It just wasn’t the same, he thought, pouring himself a glass of absinthe that had gone quite tepid. There was always something of the performance to life with his friends. It was something Tiger never understood. Poor, sweet, simple Tiger, who could go through life exactly as he was and who could take everyone exactly as they were. </p><p>Miles, without his eccentricities, was simply no one at all. </p><p>The handsome strangers in his bed were attractive insulation against loneliness, but Miles knew he was exactly as alone as he’d ever been, and would likely remain so unless he could cultivate a similar audience with the application of all his many charms and entertaining quirks. Money didn’t hurt, either.</p><p>Miles took a sip of the bitter liqueur. He would just have to apply himself to the task.</p><p> </p><p>The noise of the traffic that surrounded the corner cafe where Miles preferred to have his coffee was exactly the correct volume to ease one’s mind that one was in a metropolitan city while not distracting from any important story in Miles’ favorite gossip rags. When motorcars were not clattering noisily down the cobbled street, one could hear birds singing, and though he would never admit to enjoying anything so quaint, he might have remarked that the city air agreed with his complexion and he therefore preferred the outdoor seating to show it off to best advantage. There was also a charming patisserie along the way from Miles’ apartment, and if he sat out of doors, the waiters were less likely to chastise him for bringing his own croissant.</p><p>Coffee, croissant, magazine, cigarette, sunshine, and a little avian chorus amidst the morning din of the city. <em>Heavenly</em>.</p><p>His cup was refreshed as he paged through the society announcements, his gaze momentarily distracted by the arrival of another patron at the table opposite. The waiter poured his coffee and Miles noticed he had beautiful eyes. His hair was marvelous as well. The entire effect of hair and eyes together were something wondrous but the eyes were really quite outstanding.</p><p>Beautiful Eyes apparently noticed him watching and the pair were now fixed on Miles. The man smiled.</p><p>“Miles, bonjour!”</p><p>Miles jumped and nearly lost his cigarette. Two rather tall and lean specimens, one fair, one dark, stood over him, casting his breakfast into shadow. There was nothing so remarkable about <em>their</em> looks, save that they were effortlessly attractive in a way that sort of imposed itself upon you as if it weren’t worth mentioning for being so obvious. Their faces were something out of an Arrow collars advertisement, and their clothes hung on their frames as if resentful of covering what lay underneath.</p><p>They were among the set to know if one was young and interesting in Paris, and Miles had made it a special point to get to know them at the sort of parties where one could expect to find young and interesting people. Richard, the darker of the two, was heir to some sort of fortune or title or both. Albert was singularly talented at attaching himself to wealthy or titled young men and had apparently found in Richard his magnum opus.</p><p>“Richard! Albert! Bonjour!” He rose and kissed both their cheeks enthusiastically, careful not to drop ashes on what felt like an obscenely expensive cashmere sweater. “Will you join me?”</p><p>The two men exchanged a look. “Perhaps another time,” said Richard. “Will we see you tonight? It should be quite the spectacle,” he promised.</p><p>“There’s a rumor Josephine Baker may come,” said Albert in a voice that said he wanted the entire cafe to know he was the very soul of discretion.</p><p>“I couldn’t bear to miss it!”</p><p>Richard told him the address in a similarly subdued tone of voice. Miles noticed a few patrons discretely penciling it onto their bills.</p><p>They left as abruptly as they arrived and Miles found himself slightly flustered as he returned to his magazine. So much so, he nearly missed the engagement announcement beneath a large photo of a young woman with rather unfortunate teeth.</p>
<p></p><blockquote>
  <p>
    <em>The engagement and approaching marriage of their daughter, Winifred Throppington, to Henry “Tiger” Labouchere of Highgate, son of Mr. and Mrs. James Labouchere of Westminster, was announced Friday by Lord and Lady Throppington of Hampshire. They will be married October the first.</em>
  </p>
</blockquote>It was unfortunate, the way the ghastly pollution from the passing motorcars would sometimes settle in one’s chest and make breathing an ordeal. As the infuriating pressure of tears built behind his eyes Miles waved for his bill.<p>“Monsieur?”</p><p>“My bill, please?” he asked. </p><p>The waiter appeared confused. “It has been paid, monsieur, by Professeur Contreras.”</p><p>“Who is Professor Contreras?” asked Miles.</p><p>“That gentleman,” said the waiter, helpfully.</p><p>It was the man with the lovely eyes, now rising and donning his felt hat, which he tipped to Miles in acknowledgement.</p><p><em>Well</em>. </p><p>It wasn’t as though he was unused to receiving gifts from strange men, but it was rarely without the expectation of something in return. <em>Professeur</em> Contreras, appeared to expect nothing at all, and was, in fact, stepping into a taxi at that very moment.</p><p>What an <em>odd</em> creature. Devastatingly attractive, but odd nevertheless.</p><p>Miles’ breath hitched as he glanced once more at the magazine in his lap. His cigarette had burned itself to ash in his preoccupation. Miles gathered his things and took himself off to his apartment.</p><p>How long had he known her? Miles wondered. She certainly had money enough to fund Tiger’s racing endeavors, and Miles couldn’t <em>really</em> lie to himself that he had been much more than a generously endowed pocketbook to Tiger. For a time he had been immeasurably happy to be so, but Tiger loved nothing so much as his cars, and in those circles there was little benefit to be gained from an association with someone like Miles.</p><p>Which wasn’t to say Tiger hadn’t seemed pleased enough with his car and his clothes and Miles himself as the occasion demanded, but he’d always thought Miles was a bit silly and hadn’t cared for parties or his friends. He was a terribly serious person at times, which somehow Miles hadn’t found dull at all despite their vastly divergent interests. With Tiger he could let down a bit, he supposed. He told him things he’d never told anyone in his entire life. He’d trusted him, was the thing. He’d never expected Tiger of all people to betray him. </p><p>But then, no one ever really <em>expected</em> betrayal, did they? Miles was ever so grateful for a party to look forward to. He was clearly unsuited to self-examination. </p><p> </p><p>His compact was empty by midnight.</p><p>He’d never even caught a glimpse of Richard and Albert, let alone Josephine Baker, though he had recognized his waiter from the cafe dancing on one of the marble topped tables in the foyer.</p><p>The drive of the estate was lined with expensive motorcars and their chauffeurs. The house itself was lit like King’s College chapel at Christmas. Jazz poured from the windows onto the grounds, a deluge of trumpet and snare.</p><p>It was a party Miles would have been proud to have given. </p><p>The din was something awful inside. They’d engaged several bands for the occasion and stationed them throughout the house, so that no matter where you went, conversation was impossible. Not that conversation was the aim of most of the people there. Staff circulated with trays of martinis and glasses of champagne and seemed to be run off their feet with demand. Couples in amourous poses were sprinkled throughout the various recesses and corners like particularly lascivious sculpture.</p><p>The absolute horror of the entire evening was that Miles couldn’t seem to command anyone’s attention at all. He’d <em>always</em> been the most interesting thing in a room of interesting people. Here, he was barely more exciting than the wallpaper. </p><p>He had been reduced to generously sharing out his compact for even a scrap of stolen conversation and once the naughty salt ran out he felt more than a little desperate chasing the coattails of those who’d partaken.</p><p>Disgusted, Miles took a martini from a passing tray and found a relatively quiet corner near the bar to sulk.</p><p>“<em>Bonsoir</em>.” </p><p>Miles looked up. Perhaps university professors were paid more handsomely in France; the wool of his three-piece suit was finely woven enough to shine slightly under the light of the chandeliers. His hair and eyes, of course, were still beautiful. “Professor Contreras, you naughty thing! You left without saying a word!”</p><p>His eyes gleamed with good humor as he took the seat opposite, sinking into the velvet barrel chair as if it were made-to-measure. “You’re English!” he exclaimed. “I wasn’t certain earlier.”</p><p>Miles flicked his cigarette. “And you appear to be of Iberian extraction.”</p><p>He laughed. “Indeed I am. I hope you’ll forgive my rudeness this morning. I was late to teach a class.”</p><p>“How irresponsible of you,” said Miles with feigned horror.</p><p>“Very irresponsible,” he agreed. “But, you see, I was captivated by a beautiful young man. I had hopes of introducing myself, but it didn’t seem to be the right time. He looked very upset about something.”</p><p>Well that was embarrassing. Miles did so hate a public scene. “Ah, yes. A terribly dull story, I’m afraid.”</p><p>“I find it difficult to believe anything about you could be dull,” said the professor, easily. </p><p>Miles was beginning to suspect this was no accidental meeting. “You <em>are</em> delicious. Miles Maitland,” he said, extending his hand.</p><p>Professor Contreras kissed it and Miles felt his blush in his fingertips. “Raúl Contreras.”</p><p>This was going to be <em>fun</em>. “So Professor,” said Miles, taking another martini off a passing tray. “Are you in the habit of attending these sorts of parties?” Miles took a sip and grimaced. The cocktails were growing rather weaker as the night went on.</p><p>“Only when I wish to meet the sort of people who do.”</p><p>Miles leaned forward with keen interest. “Did you eavesdrop on my invitation so that you could gatecrash, Professor?”</p><p>Raúl laughed. “I confess I did. Are you upset?”</p><p>“Terribly,” he replied with a coquettish pout. “I’m afraid you’re going to have to sit here and tell me all about yourself if you wish for my forgiveness.”</p><p>“I shall do my best,” he said, flagging down a passing tray for his own drink.</p><p>“So what is it that you are a professor of?” Miles felt unbearably dull for starting with such a pedestrian line of inquiry, but as there was no one of mutual acquaintance to provide the necessary details, needs must.</p><p>“Spanish literature, if you can believe it.”</p><p>Miles could. “Oh, I can. You have the eyes of a poet.”</p><p>“I’ve penned a few. Not much time for it these days I’m afraid.”</p><p>“That is a shame. I’ll bet they were very good.”</p><p>“They had the desired effect.”</p><p>Miles smirked. “I’m sure they did.”</p><p>“I’m sure you’ve inspired a few poems yourself.”</p><p>“Mostly dirty limericks.”</p><p>Raúl laughed. Miles rather thought that round went to him. Miles refreshed his drink and waited for the professor’s serve. “I can’t help but notice you’re alone,” said Raúl.</p><p>“You hardly seem thronged yourself,” replied Miles.</p><p>“I’m a recent addition to Paris. I was a professor at the University of Zaragoza for almost ten years.”</p><p>“And then what happened?”</p><p>“A terribly dull story.”</p><p>A point to the Professor. “I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours,” Miles offered.</p><p>Raúl swirled his whisky pensively. “There was a war. I was unpopular with the Nationalists and I was drummed out.”</p><p>Well <em>that</em> was a bit more tragic than Miles had been expecting. “I imagine their loss was the Sorbonne’s gain.”</p><p>Raúl had a charming smirk. “My students might dispute that. And you?”</p><p>Tit for tat, Miles supposed. “Some letters of mine wound up in the hands of the police.”</p><p>“Letters to a lover?” Raúl was leaning forward now, intrigued.</p><p>Miles flicked his cigarette. “I was foolish.”</p><p>“He was unworthy of you,” he said with complete assurance. Miles found it off-putting. </p><p>“You’ve never met him.”</p><p>“I don’t have to.”</p><p>Miles waved his hand. “You hardly know me.”</p><p>“I’d like to.”</p><p>“Why?”</p><p>That seemed to give him pause. “I don’t know.”</p><p>Miles realized he’d been holding his breath. He thought the game might be rather tied up. “You’re very honest.”</p><p>Suddenly, Raúl appeared quite changed. His head bowed. “Not as honest as perhaps I would like to be. I wasn’t expecting to meet you today. In another time and place I would have been yours, utterly, but my life is not my own right now.”</p><p>Miles frowned. “Are you telling me you’re married?”</p><p>Raúl shook his head. “I’m telling you I’m involved in a cause somewhat larger than myself. A cause that recruits like-minded young men and women without personal ties who might be persuaded to fight.” </p><p>Miles could hardly credit it. “And you meant to recruit me for this endeavor?”</p><p>The professor nodded. “You were alone.”</p><p>“Well I’m sorry to disappoint you, but I’m not much for fighting.”</p><p>“Neither was I before the fascists drove me out of my home. War is coming, and anyone who stands opposed to fascism on principle or by nature will be forced to fight before long. I’m offering you a chance to choose now before your choice is taken from you.”</p><p>What on <em>Earth</em> was this man playing at? “That sounds rather grave. I think you’ll find I’m not at all a serious person. Quite the opposite in fact.”</p><p>Now, he smiled. “I’m not sure I believe that, and I don’t think you do either. Here is my card. If you change your mind, come find me.”</p><p>“Are you sure I can’t tempt you to something trivial and fleeting?” What in the world had just happened? Was all this effort to gain an introduction simply a means to recruit Miles to some shadowy militaristic enterprise? How <em>humiliating</em>.</p><p>Raúl stood and boldly caressed Miles face before leaning down and placing a gentle kiss on his temple. “If I let you, it would not be trivial, and I could never be satisfied with anything fleeting. <em>Bonsoir</em>, Miles.”</p><p><em>Well</em>, thought Miles, still feeling those gentle fingertips on his face. Miles took a fortifying sip of his gin and turned the card over in his hands before tucking it into his jacket pocket.</p><p>Game, set, and match to the professor.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>In his younger years he would have looked upon the mess as a king surveying his realm, would have worn his hangover as a badge of honor and felt delighted by his own naughtiness. What a disaster everything was! Miles was rapidly approaching his mid-thirties and it seemed to him a rather bleak picture somehow. His life like a butterfly encased in amber or a stuffed and mounted trophy upon his father’s wall—something which gave the imitation of life in its prime but was forever unmoving, unchanging, dead.</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Many thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeIsTicketyBoo">LifeIsTicketyBoo</a> for beta reading!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The pain was incandescent between his brows. Miles slapped haphazardly at the bedclothes for anything to cover his eyes as light streamed mercilessly through the sheer curtains and only succeeded in surprising the other body in his bed. His hand came down on a plump rear end and while ordinarily Miles would have been delighted, he was quite certain he was moments from an aneurysm.</p><p>There was aspirin in the medicine cabinet if he could make the journey. He wasn’t at all sure that he could. The other body groaned. </p><p>“Miles?”</p><p>Pierre (or possibly Jean-Claude, but Miles wouldn’t have laid money on either) was rising and shaking the bed as he went. Miles suddenly found himself quite nauseous and threw an arm out to stop him moving. </p><p>With great care, Miles rolled off the bed and fell to the floor. The bare wood was delightfully cool on his face. </p><p>Two aspirin chased with tepid water from the tap, then a half glass of tepid champaign to chase the water. Miles sat on the stool at the bar and rubbed at his pained forehead. He could hear his Frenchman moving in the bedroom. The apartment was in a state. Overfull ashtrays and half-filled glasses littered every surface. Empty bottles were everywhere. The phonograph was still spinning. </p><p>In his younger years he would have looked upon the mess as a king surveying his realm, worn his hangover as a badge of honor and felt delighted by his own naughtiness. What a disaster everything was! Miles was rapidly approaching his mid-thirties and it seemed to him a rather bleak picture somehow. His life like a butterfly encased in amber or a stuffed and mounted trophy upon his father’s wall—something which gave the imitation of life in its prime but was forever unmoving, unchanging, dead. </p><p>Everything seemed so much <em>more</em> in London with Adam and Agatha; when they were all writing and featuring in that scandalous little column. It seemed rather bolder, perhaps even noble, raising the ire of the well-to-do, eschewing convention. Since Oxford, really, when they’d all got their first taste of public disappointment and had to learn to love the spotlight.</p><p>He loved the way he could make Aggie smile by saying something outrageous. She was such an absolute angel and needed <em>such</em> encouragement to be happy. </p><p>But Aggie wasn’t here and this was Paris. One really had to <em>work</em> at it to become a scandal in Paris. And without the attention, what was he <em>really</em> doing? The parties weren’t any more exciting than in England and it wasn’t as if Van was here to make sure he was seen where he ought to be and not where he shouldn’t.</p><p>Miles tried to imagine a life outside of public scrutiny and couldn’t bear it. <em>Never apologize</em>, Margot had told him as a boy. <em>And never explain</em>. Advice which had served him well for twenty odd years of cameras and scurrilous accusations from anonymous bylines, but now seemed quite unequal to this new state of affairs.</p><p>He’d always thought of himself as a headline first and a person second. His life on lease from the public, as it were. What a fright-making thing it was to consider <em>not</em> considering.</p><p>No, it was too much, but at least one thing was certain; if nobody was even posted outside his door there was simply no need to parade the boys in and out at the current rate of exchange. He couldn’t even remember <em>enjoying</em> them, and wasn’t that just too depressing.</p><p>There were a foreign pair of trousers draped over a chair in the living room. Miles rushed over and began scooping up the clothing he didn’t recognize as his own before sweeping back into the bedroom.</p><p>“Get dressed, darling. It’s a new day and mother needs to tidy.”</p><p>To the young man’s credit, he swore far less than Miles was expecting, though the slam of the door was really a bit theatrical, Miles thought, given they hardly knew one another. Immediately Miles began binning bottles and emptying ashtrays. </p><p>He was not overfond of cleaning, but he was not <em>incapable</em> when the need arose. In this case, the need had risen and was approaching its zenith. Miles grimaced as he emptied the bins. His <em>poubelle</em> runneth over. </p><p>He was brutal and efficient. There was a vial of cocaine hiding in his sofa, fallen from some pocket or other. Miles hesitated only a moment before binning it as well. Discarded items of clothing were gathered to be sent out with the laundry. </p><p>Miles reached for a shirt which had fallen beneath a chair and as he did so, something fell from the folds of fabric and drifted to the floor.</p><p>It was the professor’s calling card. </p><p>Miles was halfway to binning it when the memory of those eyes stopped him. He was the most compelling thing Miles had seen in months, even if he <em>had</em> been a cad. He had no reason to call, and yet he was rather attached to the idea of knowing he could if he wanted to. Miles slipped it into his address book beside the telephone. </p><p>When he’d finally finished tidying to his satisfaction, the apartment looked much as it did when the drop cloths had first been whisked away. Miles took a breath that wasn’t half as steady as he’d have liked, and found the trunk his mother had sent with his belongings, as yet unopened.</p><p>There was a photo inside, framed, of Agatha, Adam and himself lounging on the quad beneath Magdalen’s cloister tower during one of Agatha’s visits. Miles hadn’t noticed Simon taking the picture. They weren’t doing anything noteworthy which probably prevented Simon finding an interested buyer. </p><p>Agatha was laughing, head thrown back, while Miles appeared to be holding forth on some subject and Adam was looking at Miles with the sort of affection Miles always longed for and seemed perennially incapable of inspiring in anyone else.</p><p>He’d been so desperately in love with the boy. He’d never forgiven Simon for the pictures he <em>had</em> sold not more than a few weeks later. Miles hadn’t known a moment’s respite from the press since, and Adam had never quite looked at him the same way again. To think, Simon went to his grave thinking Miles had soured on him for rejecting an insincere advance offered after a surfeit of gin cocktails on his first May Day.</p><p>He never <em>was</em> very bright, the poor thing.</p><p>Miles carefully removed the frame from tissue paper and brought it to the living room. There were a number of empty hooks left from artworks long since sold or moved to other estates.</p><p>The picture was hung in pride of place beside the piano. Miles hadn’t sat to play since arriving, but as he sat at the bench to admire the photograph he was struck with the longing to do so.</p><p>He began, out of habit, with a few scales before launching into a rag, feeling the keys warm to his touch. The music was loud and strident and suddenly Miles couldn’t bear to play another note. He took a few breaths and looked at the picture. Of himself, of the last time he remembered being unselfconsciously happy.</p><p>Quite without meaning to, his fingers found themselves playing the adagio of Beethoven’s Sonata Pathétique.</p><p>It had been a warm, September day, but Miles had been indoors, taking advantage of the quiet of the residence to practice the piano. When the others were there he could usually be pressed to play something lively and moderately risqué. He didn’t mind the rags, but sometimes he missed the stretch of something more challenging, even if the piece <em>was</em> less liable to start a sing-a-long. That afternoon he was working on the Pathétique. When he got to the adagio, he suddenly realized the hall wasn’t empty at all, that there was a young man listening to him play. Miles was horribly self conscious and stopped immediately but the young man told him he played beautifully, and asked him to continue.</p><p>Miles hadn’t heard the adagio without his mind’s eye conjuring Adam’s attentive face since.</p><p> </p><p>The morning was a bit chill when Miles finally stepped out, a threat of autumn that would undoubtedly make good on it’s promise of rain and cold weather within the week. Ordinarily it was a thought that would have made him absolutely dreary for the rest of the day, but he was feeling surprisingly sanguine as he greeted the newsagents and collected his usual rag. He caught the headlines of the papers as he went and with a smirk of triumph, he bought one on a whim.</p><p><em>War indeed</em>, Miles thought as he approached the patisserie. <em>Paris-Soir</em> was declaring <em>La Paix</em>!</p><p>The cafe was snug with bodies and gouts of steam from the enormous brass and copper machines. Miles managed to find a table near the window, fogged with the heat of concentrated humanity. As his coffee was poured he arranged his purchases on the table, receiving only a slight moue of disapproval from the waiter as he revealed his croissant. Miles ignored it and bit into the buttery pastry, sweeping the resulting crumbs off a picture of Neville Chamberlain signing something with Chancellor Hitler.</p><p>“Miles, <em>cherie</em>!” </p><p>Richard and Albert were bearing down on him. Miles swallowed and pasted on his best grin. “<em>Bonjour</em>! Have you been here the whole time? I didn’t see you when I came in!”</p><p>Miles kissed their cheeks and invited them to sit. They demurred, of course. </p><p>“Did you get your invitation for tonight?” asked Richard.</p><p>“I did! It sounds like an absolute scream,” he said. It didn’t sound like anything resembling a scream. Probably something more akin to a loud voice in a hushed library but he wasn’t about to say that to them. “In the Latin Quarter, isn’t it? I’ve just the thing to wear! I can hardly wait.”</p><p>Richard and Albert exchanged a look. “I’m sure we’re all breathless with anticipation,” said Albert. </p><p>Miles thought that was a bit bitchy. “Well, I won’t keep you,” he said.</p><p>“Enjoy your morning,” Richard told him before turning around continuing in French. “<em>What a pathetic slut</em>.”</p><p>Albert tittered. “<em>He’s good for a laugh if not a fuck</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Marc says he’s completely worn out</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Of course he is, the whore</em>.”</p><p>The door closed behind them. Miles felt as if he’d been struck in the chest, the air forced from his lungs. His fingers were cold. They shook as he reached for his coffee, cradling the cup to return feeling to his hands as he struggled to draw breath. He took in air in ragged gasps.</p><p>He’d known they didn’t <em>really</em> like him. So few people did, but he’d thought… he’d <em>hoped</em>…</p><p>These people were just <em>not</em> going to be his friends. Not ever.</p><p>He’d thought the realization would have been more painful, but it washed over him as a statement of fact and little else. His breathing gradually returned to normal as the agonizing shame began to lessen.</p><p>Miles looked down at his magazine and couldn’t bear the pictures of glamorous starlets. Unbearably wealthy, beautiful young creatures like he’d been once. It had been a golden moment in time and, in the end, fragile and easily shattered. Ephemeral as all beautiful things were.</p><p>Miles set it aside and returned to the newsprint. Professor Contreras was nowhere to be found this morning, thankfully. Whatever had that man been thinking? Another hot spike of shame settled in his stomach as he thought of how eager he’d been to court the man’s attention before he knew he’d been little more than a gullible mark for a particularly crude sales pitch.</p><p>He had half a mind to march over to his office and shove the paper under his self-righteous nose, and was still considering it as an option as he skimmed the front page. An agreement, it said. The leaders of Europe ceded the German chancellor control of the Sudetenland so that he wouldn’t…</p><p>Well, that couldn’t be right, could it? Hadn’t he just annexed Austria?  </p><p>Miles suddenly found himself pouring over the article in much more detail, recalling certain bits of conversation overheard between his father and the Prime Minister, and grew increasingly more concerned that this might not mean <em>la paix</em> after all.</p><p>He despised politics and talk of empires and commerce. Politicians were a dreadful bore and never half as clever as they imagined they were, but they never let that stop them ruining a perfectly lovely dinner party with pompous speeches and irrelevant opinions. </p><p>Miles much preferred creatives. But despite his cultivated reputation for superficiality, he wasn’t unintelligent. And while his place at Magdalen college may have been aided by titles and honorifics, his marks certainly weren’t. Though <em>honestly</em>, Miles thought, one hardly needed a First in Greats to recognize ambitions of conquest. Obviously, Chancellor Hitler found something to admire in Alexander as well, though Miles somewhat doubted it was his affection for Hephaestion.</p><p>Visions of putting Contreras in his place were swiftly being dispelled. How vile and upsetting.</p><p>Miles looked back at the magazine which suddenly seemed much more appealing reading. What could he do about it, after all? He wasn’t yet Lord Maitland, he had no real money of his own, his friends were worlds away and had fewer connections and <em>far</em> less money. What sort of fight did Contreras imagine Miles was fit for? It was absurd.</p><p>It wasn’t as if he <em>wanted</em> a war, for goodness sakes, but if one came to their doorstep there was blessed little Miles could do to stop it.</p><p>For some reason, Miles thought of Edward. He hadn’t thought of his brother in years, but he found himself wondering what his big brother would have made of things. Miles laughed, suddenly sure his brother would have been eager to <em>give the hun a bally good thumping</em>! </p><p>He was always so full of love for King and Country, dear Edward.</p><p>Miles fingered the edge of the paper before folding it and tucking it under his arm as he rose to leave.</p><p>The magazine stayed on the table.</p><p> </p><p>The cobbles were slick with the mist that hung in the cool autumn air. Miles drew his camel coat tighter across his chest to stave off the chill.</p><p>The address led to a gated townhouse a few blocks off the Boulevard St. Germain. The streets were lively with young people rushing to and from the metro and the cafes. Their clothes were familiar, expensive and outrageous. Miles was certain there must have been a nightclub nearby. For a moment he was tempted to join them. Another anonymous body among the throng of revelers, no one of any special importance. It might, he reflected, return more social dividends if he stopped bothering with these people simply because it was the expected thing. It wasn’t as if a hereditary title made one interesting, after all. Just look at poor Simon. </p><p>He paused with a hand on the bell.</p><p>It was extremely unlikely he’d ever return to England to assume his title. Poor Mary would probably be saddled with the ancestral pile in whatever state Father left it in. He didn’t, strictly speaking, <em>need</em> the goodwill of these people.</p><p>He rang the bell.</p><p>He also had no desire to end up like Simon with a lofty title and not a single penny to his name. If the money ran out, and it certainly could at the rate Margot spent it, it would be the respect and investment of the aristocracy which would see him through. <em>Nobility is currency</em>, his father always said.</p><p>If only they weren’t such horrible bores.</p><p>A matronly looking woman answered the door with a bracing expression, lips pursed with disapproval, though whether it was directed toward the party or Miles himself, he couldn’t say. He smiled politely and followed her gesture toward the sound of low voices.</p><p>There was no music that he could hear, which hardly boded well, but it wasn’t until he saw Richard’s sienna brown, wool turtleneck that he knew for certain he was in trouble.</p><p>Miles had worn nothing less than a cream, silk jacket embroidered with blue forget-me-nots.</p><p>The milieu was decidedly conservative and academic. <em>Clearly</em> Richard and Miles had differing ideas of what constituted a <em>salon</em>.</p><p>He pasted on his best smile. “Richard, darling, so good of you to invite me,” he stated, broadly, kissing both cheeks with abandon. Richard rather looked as if he’d swallowed his tongue. He saw Albert by the drinks cart looking at him with horror. Most of the conversation in the room had stopped and Miles realized he recognized a few of the disapproving faces in the crowd from some of the more tedious soirees his parents had given. </p><p>Miles would ordinarily have made a scene, but if word got back to Margot, he didn’t like his chances. She was an extraordinarily tolerant woman but even she would have difficulty forgiving him alienating himself in two countries in less than six months.</p><p>Richard gave Miles only the briefest acknowledgement before the room returned to their conversations, ignoring Miles utterly. </p><p>Miles made his way to the drinks cart. There were enough supplies on hand to make himself a martini, thank God, and after a brief scouting journey through the apartment, found a place to drink it nearest the youngest and least hostile looking contingent. They paused briefly in their discussion to look at him. He smiled back and they resumed their conversation in rapid-fire French, clearly disinterested in including Miles in their discussion. Miles contented himself with sipping his gin-heavy cocktail and imagining himself at any party but this one.</p><p>It was only when he heard the name <em>Contreras</em>, that he bothered paying attention to what was being said.</p><p>“<em>Of course he opposes the agreement, he’s a communist.</em>”</p><p>“<em>There was a time such seditious speech would find one in a guillotine. If you ask me Franco had the right idea to deal with his sort.</em>”</p><p>“<em>Chancellor Hitler as well for that matter. One can only hope Daladier might learn from the association</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Unlikely. Too much filth has drained into France. Daladier is swimming in it.</em>” Miles didn’t think he was imagining the man was looking at him as he said this. “<em>Contreras may have the ear of the degenerates and communists at the Sorbonne, but no one with any real power is concerned</em>.” </p><p>“<em>What does that man know of war? He deserted his country. He knows nothing of tactics or the military.</em>”</p><p>Miles was already quite irritated when the other man replied. “<em>We may as well ask the opinion of the empty-headed faggot here</em>.”</p><p>Both pairs of eyes turned to him for a moment with matching smirks before continuing. “<em>Richard always did like a clown at his parties</em>.”</p><p>“<em>He says this one has been following him around like a duckling since he arrived</em>.”</p><p>“<em>Imagine being too queer for the English!</em>”</p><p>“<em>Or simply too idiotic to be discrete!</em>”</p><p>Miles grit his teeth and stood. His cheeks were hot with embarrassment and anger. To hell with these people. To hell with all of them.</p><p>“<em>I do believe Professor Contreras may have had a point. Only a moron could fail to see Hitler has designs on an empire of his own, and with men like you in charge, France will be in his hands before he even asks.</em>”</p><p>Before the two men could recover from being redressed in their own language, Miles had already stalked off toward the door. A bottle of champagne was chilling in a bucket near the fireplace.</p><p>“Miles, you’re not leaving so soon?” said Richard, amusement clear in his voice.</p><p>“I may be a tired, old whore, Richard, but at least I’ll never be you,” said Miles, who left with a rude gesture and the bottle of champagne, slamming the door behind him.</p><p> </p><p>The tears began almost immediately after the door closed. Miles ignored them, setting a quick pace that took him to the left bank of the Seine. He pried the cage off the bottle and the cork flew into the water with a loud pop. Miles ignored the champagne that spilled over his hand, bringing the bottle to his lips and drinking as deeply as he could, desperate to numb this pain. The tears still flowed, nearly blinding him.</p><p>He walked along the river, drinking, crying and generally feeling quite desperate. He hadn’t quite reached the point of wanting to pitch himself off a bridge, but the night was still young and Miles didn’t want to rule out the possibility.</p><p><em>God</em> he’d never felt so alone. His whole life yawned threateningly before him, a cavalcade of emptiness and solitude. Adam and Agatha lost to him forever, Margot and Mary thousands of miles away and consumed with their own lives, Miles soon forgotten in theirs, he and his petty struggles little more than a pathetic footnote in the family history.</p><p>He was no one here, and nothing to anyone. Paris society had no use for him. What was he meant to do now? Get a job? Miles laughed fatalistically. What a picture that would make. </p><p>With a weak sob, Miles sank down against the railing and gave himself over to his misery. He drew his knees up close and buried his head in his arms.</p><p>“<em>Sind Sie in ordnung?</em>”</p><p>Miles looked up, blinking tears from his eyes. There was a young Orthodox Jewish man standing over him, looking down with concern. Miles spoke very little German but his meaning seemed clear enough. He tried to smile, but thought it may not have been terribly convincing. “I’m fine,” he said. “Thank you for your concern.”</p><p>“You are English?” the young man asked.</p><p>Miles brightened somewhat. “Oh, you speak English?”</p><p>The young man smiled back. “A little. My cousin and I are lost.”</p><p>“Jakob!” </p><p>“We are!”</p><p>Miles held up his hands in a placating fashion. “Where are you trying to go?” The young man he assumed was called Jakob offered a hand to pull Miles to his feet.</p><p>“We arrived this afternoon. Someone was supposed to meet us at the train station, but they never came.”</p><p>Miles frowned. “How horrid.”</p><p>The two men engaged in a silent exchange before the other finally seemed to capitulate to whatever Jakob had asked. “We don’t know what to do. We paid...everything we had to get here. We have no money.”</p><p>“We asked for directions to the nearest synagogue but our French is not good.”</p><p>Miles cringed in sympathy. “Neither were your directions. I believe you may be on the wrong side of the Seine.”</p><p>Both men started arguing in Yiddish. </p><p>“If you like, I can get you a room at a hotel for the night,” Miles offered.</p><p>The two men stopped arguing. “You would do this for us?”</p><p>Miles smiled sadly. “I had to leave my home, too.” Preparing himself for rejection, he offered, “Or I could just see you over the river. You might have more luck in the third arrondissement.”</p><p>They shook their heads vigorously. “No! No, we’ll go to the hotel. Thank you!”</p><p>Miles took a shuddering breath. “Right. Well, I <em>do</em> believe there’s a hotel only a short way ahead. Shall we?”</p><p>The two young men fell into step with him along the river. “You seemed upset before,” said Jakob.</p><p>Miles grimaced. “Yes, well, best not to dwell on it.”</p><p>“Your…” he broke off, looking for a word. “Cosmetics?” he asked.</p><p>Miles stopped abruptly. “Oh! Oh, I hadn’t even thought, I probably look monstrous!” Miles found his compact in his pocket, empty of anything naughtier than a bit of talc and opened the mirror. “Oh, <em>no</em>,” he cried. His face was an absolute <em>wreck</em>. His eyes were swollen and his mascara had left black streaks across his cheeks. He wiped at his eyes with his handkerchief but the damage was too severe. “Oh <em>damn it</em>,” he growled.</p><p>“Maybe it’s not so bad?” asked Jakob.</p><p>Miles couldn’t help laughing. Soon both men were laughing with him. “Oh, I think it’s quite a bit worse than that, but thank you,” he said. “I honestly don’t think I can go anywhere looking like this.”</p><p>Jakob nodded in understanding.”They might not have rented to you anyway if they saw us.”</p><p>Miles was deeply frustrated. “Well I can’t very well leave you on the street. Would you like to come back to my apartment?” Both men looked alarmed. Miles laughed. “To <em>sleep</em> you naughty boys, I have two spare bedrooms. I promise your virtue couldn’t be safer.” </p><p>“Isaak?” asked Jakob.</p><p><em>Isaak</em>, Miles supposed, looked quite pensive. “In the morning, you will take us to the synagogue?”</p><p>“Upon my honor as a gentleman.” Isaak seemed to take an inordinate amount of time considering whether this was any sort of assurance at all. “I have it on good authority the beds are extremely comfortable,” Miles added, sweetening the offer. “And if all else fails tomorrow, come back, and I <em>will</em> find you a hotel.”</p><p>“We’ll go with you,” Isaak decided.</p><p>Miles clapped his hands. “Excellent!” he crowed. “Follow mother!”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>"Bring me to your meeting,” said Miles.</p>
<p>“No,” said Raúl. “I told you, I never should have asked.”</p>
<p>“And I never should have said no. I don’t know why I did, only, I think I desperately wanted to believe nothing had changed when everything <em>has</em> changed, hasn’t it? The world and I both.”</p>
<p>“You’re happy, Miles, and so beautiful. I don’t want that to ever change.”</p>
<p>Miles traced the line of Raúl’s jaw with his hand. “I can be all those things and useful, too.”</p>
<p>Raúl sighed deeply. “If you’re sure.”</p>
<p>“I’ll get my coat.”</p>
          </blockquote><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>All my thanks to <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/LifeIsTicketyBoo">LifeIsTicketyBoo</a> for giving this a read through!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Dappled sunlight flickered across Miles’ face through the gauzy, white curtains fluttering in the morning breeze. He stretched lazily, a smile on his face, arms extended the full width of the bed and encountering nothing but an expanse of cool bedlinen. He took a deep breath and opened his eyes.</p>
<p>It was a beautiful day.</p>
<p>His feet met slippers beside his bed, and carried him to the robe hanging on the back of the door which he slipped on over his pyjamas. Though he told his lovers he slept in the nude, he’d always secretly kept a pair, and preferred them whenever he slept alone. </p>
<p>He ordered three more pairs after Richard’s disastrous party, and not solely for the benefit of his guests.</p>
<p>He fussed with an errant curl in the mirror above his dresser and blew a kiss to the picture of Agatha that rested beside it.</p>
<p>There were more pictures in the room now along the walls and dotted on top of the bureau. It wasn’t home, not yet, but it could be, Miles thought, with a little time. He could not simply impose his life in England upon his life in France, he finally concluded, but that didn’t have to mean the life he made would be inferior to the one he left. Just different.</p>
<p>Miles opened his bedroom door to an explosion of sound and activity.</p>
<p>Very, <em>very</em> different.</p>
<p>“Good morning, everyone,” he sang.</p>
<p>A chorus of “<em>Morgen</em>,” greeted him. A plate of food was pressed into his hands by Mrs. Fliegelman with a kiss to his cheek before she ran back to the kitchen to join Mrs. Schimmer who rushed out a moment later to hand him a grocery list. </p>
<p>“Miles, sit,” said Jakob, clearing a space at his table for him. A small ziggurat of books was pushed aside so he could set his plate down. He was nearly run off his feet by one of the twins before he reached his chair. Rachel adjusted the baby she was feeding on the sofa and scolded the two boys for running in the house, returning to her conversation with her sister Ida.</p>
<p>Jakob and Isaak had had no trouble finding the synagogue. Unfortunately the synagogue had trouble finding them a place to stay. They arrived back on Miles’ doorstep a scant few hours after departing. Most of the synagogue’s families were already hosting refugees and increasing resentment of Jewish immigration in Paris made finding accommodations elsewhere difficult, a fact Miles found <em>infuriating</em> when three separate hotels refused to rent to him.</p>
<p>“It’s all right,” Jakob had said. “We will manage.”</p>
<p>“But where will you go?” Miles asked. </p>
<p>Isaak and Jakob exchanged a look. “We could continue south, perhaps, to Spain or Italy.”</p>
<p>Miles made a face. “Well that’s ridiculous. If there’s room in Paris for me, there’s certainly room enough for you, and I have plenty of my own. Stay with me as long as you need.”</p>
<p>And so they had. And then the synagogue had asked if they might have room for two more. They didn’t mention those two came with wives, children and their mothers, but Miles wasn’t about to turn them away, and adding a few extra beds was no trouble in the end.</p>
<p>Also the food was really rather exceptional. Miles had never observed a Jewish sabbath before his guests arrived. Now, like clockwork, every Friday, his kitchen became a hub of activity. Demands were occasionally shouted through the doors or pressed into his hand as if he were negotiating the release of hostages. He always acquiesced, of course, and in exchange, a truly dazzling array of food appeared as if by magic. Miles had begun to despair for his figure.</p>
<p>He was just about to tuck into his breakfast when Isador turned to him and asked his opinion about some bit of Talmudic law he’d been heatedly debating with David a moment before. Miles hadn’t heard a word, of course, but rather than admit as much, he simply pointed at David and said, “I agree with him.”</p>
<p>The argument began anew and Miles let it wash over him as he ate his breakfast.</p>
<p>The food really <em>was</em> quite extraordinary.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The market was quite busy that morning. Miles adjusted his dark glasses and shifted the large string bag on his elbow as he attempted to decipher Mrs. Schimmer’s handwriting.</p>
<p>“Miles? Is that you?”</p>
<p>Miles looked up with a frown. Raúl Contreras appeared, looking terribly amused about something.</p>
<p>“I’d hoped I’d see you again,” he said. “How are you?”</p>
<p>“Incandescent with joy.”</p>
<p>Raúl laughed. “Oh don’t be like that, please. I apologized, didn’t I? You have to know I didn’t mean to string you along.”</p>
<p>Miles pouted.</p>
<p>“You didn’t know? Oh, Miles.”</p>
<p>“If you’d like to make it up to me, you could help me decipher this. It’s completely opaque to me.”</p>
<p>“My expertise is at your command. Let’s see what you have here.”</p>
<p>“I know <em>Zwiebel</em> is onion, but what on earth is a <em>Pastinake</em>?”</p>
<p>Raúl frowned and reached for the list, lips silently forming the words as he read. “I’m not completely sure but this looks like a recipe for gefilte fish and the only thing missing is parsnip.”</p>
<p>“Parsnip! That was it,” he said, remembering his hurried lesson in the kitchen the week prior.</p>
<p>Raúl was looking at him oddly. “You don’t look Jewish.”</p>
<p>“I’m not. I have two Jewish families staying with me. ”</p>
<p>“How did that come about?”</p>
<p>“I advertised.”</p>
<p>Raúl laughed. “Be serious.”</p>
<p>Miles smirked. “I met two young men in the Latin Quarter who needed a place to stay. Their rabbi asked if I could host a few more, it’s hardly a thrilling tale.”</p>
<p>“You took in two Jewish families and you’re doing their shopping.”</p>
<p>“Well Mrs. Schimmer and Mrs. Fliegelman are busy in my kitchen at the moment, and the boys have <em>terrible</em> French and Rachel and Ida have their hands full with the twins and the new baby so really, it makes perfect sense for me to go.”</p>
<p>Raúl’s face looked concerned. “How long have you been doing this?”</p>
<p>“Since October,” he replied.</p>
<p>“<em>What</em>?” </p>
<p>Miles had finally managed to shock Professor Contreras but he found it not nearly as thrilling as he’d hoped.</p>
<p>“Miles, will you let me take you out? Let me give you a night out, please.”</p>
<p>Miles flushed. “Where? When?”</p>
<p>“Tonight! I’ll pick you up at seven. I know a wonderful club you’re going to love—”</p>
<p>“Tonight? I can’t possibly go tonight, it’s shabbat, darling.”</p>
<p>Raúl looked flustered by that proclamation. “You’re observing?”</p>
<p>“Well they couldn’t very well kick me out of my home every week. It’s just not the done thing. But why don’t you come tonight?”</p>
<p>“To shabbat?”</p>
<p>“Are you doubting my skills as a host?”</p>
<p>“No, I’m picturing what my mother will say when I tell her I’ve finally found a nice Jewish girl to settle down with.”</p>
<p>Miles chuckled, tucking his hand into Raúl’s elbow. “Don’t get ahead of yourself, dear, we’ve only just met, and you haven’t even met my family.”</p>
<p>Raúl laughed. “Well, then, I suppose I have no choice but to join you tonight.”</p>
<p>Miles was momentarily taken aback. “Oh, they’re not <em>really</em> my family you know. Margot—that’s my mother—is still in England with my sister Mary and my father, Lord Maitland, though we haven’t really spoken in years—”</p>
<p>“You don’t sound very close.”</p>
<p>Miles had never really thought of that. “Well Mary is quite sweet, honestly. Margo’s a bit silly but a dear, really, and oh, there’s Agatha and Adam, my two <em>dearest</em> friends.”</p>
<p>“And where are they?”</p>
<p>“Mary’s barely of age, she’s at home, I assume. And Agatha was in a mental hospital when I left. She went a little funny after stealing a racing car. I’m honestly not sure <em>where</em> Adam is right now. I do hope he’s all right.”</p>
<p>“He hasn’t written?”</p>
<p>“Well, no. Though I’m sure he would, only he’s been pining for a girl for about ten years and she announced she’s marrying someone else. I expect he’s preoccupied.”</p>
<p>“Miles, I’d dearly love to meet all of them one day. But for tonight, I’d like to meet the family you do the shopping for.”</p>
<p>“And where is <em>your</em> presumably charming Jewish family? Shouldn’t I meet them as well?”</p>
<p>Raúl smiled a bit sadly. “In Huesca, still. A small town in Aragon.”</p>
<p>“You must miss them.”</p>
<p>“I do. Very much.”</p>
<p>“I feel rather awful that I don’t miss my family much at all anymore. Is that horrible of me?”</p>
<p>“You’re a very good person at heart, Miles. I think if there were anything to miss, you would.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Hanukkah had been pleasant, Miles thought. The candles were quite lovely, and though he didn’t understand a word of the prayers, he quite enjoyed making the twins laugh by cheating at dreidel. There were other holidays and festivals, of course, but it wasn’t until Purim that Miles felt like he’d <em>truly</em> belonged. Purim, he decided, was <em>his</em> holiday.</p>
<p>As he understood it, the trick of it was to dress outrageously and drink yourself blind.</p>
<p>Miles could happily claim expertise at both. </p>
<p>It was a delight loaning his things to the others to dress up, to follow them to the synagogue and feel, for once, quite at home in his own skin. And then after, to pour cocktails for the boys, for Rachel and Ida, to press hamantaschen into the sticky hands of the twins as they were sent to bed. To play the piano for company and find them a rapt audience.</p>
<p>He <em>loved</em> them, he realized. And he thought, with no small degree of amazement, they might have loved him in return. He’d never been overly popular with religious sorts.</p>
<p>Despite the ease with which he offered the invitation to Raúl, Miles couldn’t deny he was nervous about this evening. He changed from tie to cravat to tie several times, then changed his jacket. Blue, then black, then blue again. He wore his best cufflinks and his favorite tie pin. He tended not to make up much anymore, but for Raúl, he added a touch of color to his lips and eyelids.</p>
<p>The door buzzed, and Miles went to meet Raúl. He was absolutely ravishing in a deep brown suit.</p>
<p>“These are for you,” he said, offering a bouquet of tulips. </p>
<p>Miles grinned. “You’re simply too sweet. Come upstairs, everyone is waiting. We should be lighting the candles any minute.”</p>
<p>“I can’t wait,” said Raúl.</p>
<p>In fact, Miles had just enough time to put the flowers in water on the table before it was time for the blessings.</p>
<p>“Mrs. Fliegleman, Mrs. Schimmer, may I introduce my friend, Professor Raúl Contreras. Professor, this is David and Ida Fliegleman, Ira and Rachel Schimmer and their sons Simon and Saul, and my friends Isaak and Jakob Tauber.”</p>
<p>Pleasantries exchanged, they stood shoulder to shoulder as the women lit the candles and offered blessings, including one for Miles which certainly didn’t force him to dab at his eyes.</p>
<p>Miles really needn’t have worried about dinner at all. Raúl was a charming guest. He flirted with the older women, listened attentively to the young men and kept the children occupied with jokes and stories throughout the meal. </p>
<p>Finally Saul spoke up. “Miles, will we find out what happened to the baroness and the stable boy tonight?”</p>
<p>Miles blanched. “Well, I don’t know,” he said.</p>
<p>“Oh, please!” added Simon, plaintively. </p>
<p>“Yes, do continue,” said Rachel. “You must! It’s tradition now!”</p>
<p>Miles knew when he was being teased. He sucked in a breath. “Very well. Shall we adjourn to the parlor?”</p>
<p>The twins cheered.</p>
<p>“The baroness and the stable boy?” asked Raúl.</p>
<p>Miles sighed dramatically. “They were bored, I was listening to the radio and they asked me to translate what was happening in the program.</p>
<p>“I’m afraid I don't know of any programs about a baroness and a stable boy.”</p>
<p>Miles frowned. “There aren’t any. French radio is dreadfully dull, so I made something up.”</p>
<p>Raúl laughed loudly and suddenly. “Well, this I simply must hear.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“Let’s see, where were we? Ah yes!” said Miles, with appropriate dramatic flourish. He’d added a scarf for dramatic effect. “The Baroness has been locked in the tower by the wicked Count who demands her hand in marriage despite her being in love with the handsome young stable boy.”</p>
<p>“How is she going to get out?” asked Simon.</p>
<p>“She could find some rope and climb down!” suggested Saul.</p>
<p>“Ah, but the count has already anticipated this, and has removed all rope from the tower.”</p>
<p>The boys groaned in defeat.</p>
<p>“But wait! There’s someone outside the tower! She hears the clang and clash of swords, men grunting as they fight below. She looks out the window and there, below, is her lover, fighting three tower guards!”</p>
<p>The boys cheer. “Does he run them through?”</p>
<p>“I bet he cuts their heads off!” </p>
<p>“Boys!” chides Rachel as the others laugh.</p>
<p>“He knocks them all over the head and leaves them beside the tower. The stable boy climbs up to the tower window.”</p>
<p>“What is he climbing? There’s no rope and I should think the stone would be slippery.”</p>
<p>“There’s a very sturdy trellis covered in vines. He reaches the window and the baroness pulls him inside.”</p>
<p>At this Miles bats his eyes as the baroness and says, “Oh, my love, you came for me!”</p>
<p>Before he could turn to speak the other part, Raúl leapt up from the sofa, taking Miles by the hand. “Of course I came for you, my darling!”</p>
<p>“Oh, do you know this program too, Raúl?” asked Ida.</p>
<p>Raúl winked at her. “As a matter of fact, it’s one of my favorites.”</p>
<p>Miles thought he might be blushing. “Well, my handsome stable boy, I’m certainly glad you’re here! But wait! I hear footsteps in the corridor! The count is coming! You must hide!”</p>
<p>The others laughed as Raúl lifted up one of the boys in front of his face. “I’ll hide behind this pillar!”</p>
<p>Miles laughed. “Aren’t you clever! The wicked count comes in, twirling his moustache. He says his guards have told him the stable boy has come to rescue the baroness! She’s distraught! They’ve been discovered! The count will run him through and force her to marry him! But wait! The count is laughing! ‘Foolish woman!’ says the count. ‘You thought I brought you here because I desired you? You are only bait for the trap I laid for the stable boy! For you see, he is no humble stable boy, but a prince in hiding!”</p>
<p>“A prince!” cried Ida.</p>
<p>“I knew it,” said Rachel.</p>
<p>“Yes!” confirmed Miles, dramatically. “‘And now that he is here,’ said the wicked count, ‘I will finally kill him and take his kingdom for my own!’”</p>
<p>“We shall see!” shouted Raúl, gently returning his pillar to the sofa beside his mother. “Have at you!” He picked up a bolster cushion and wielded it menacingly to gales of laughter.</p>
<p>“The stable boy!” shouted Miles through his own laughter. “I’ll finish you once and for all!” he announced, looking around for his own weapon. Leah handed him a small embroidered cushion from the sofa. </p>
<p>It was a pillow fight that would live in infamy. Miles was thoroughly outgunned by Raúl’s bolster, and the cushion was struck from his hand early in the match. Though he took several hostages at one point, Miles was ultimately unsuccessful, and performed a death scene worthy of the great stages of Europe before swiftly ducking behind a decorative screen and reappearing as the baroness. “Oh, my handsome prince! However can I thank you for saving me from the evil count!”</p>
<p>Raúl pulled Miles into his arms abruptly. It was something he’d seen done in films dozens of times, but having never experienced himself could not have anticipated how breathless it would leave him to be pulled so forcefully against Raúl’s body. He was hardly acting at all when he told him, “I’ll give you anything you like.”</p>
<p>Raúl’s smile faltered. “Run away with me to my kingdom. Be my bride and rule with me.”</p>
<p>Miles swallowed against the lump in his throat. Raúl’s earnest expression was breaking his heart. “I...I can’t.”</p>
<p>“What?” shouted Mrs. Fliegleman. “Why not?”</p>
<p>Brought sharply back to his senses, Miles replied, “Because! Because I have a terrible secret!”</p>
<p>“Whatever it is, I don’t care!” said Raúl, much more dramatically.</p>
<p>“I am already married!” announced Miles to the collective gasps of the room. “And I do believe that will conclude the episode this evening.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The evening wore to a close, and Miles followed Raúl down the stairs to the door to say goodnight.</p>
<p>“I had a wonderful time, Miles. Thank you for inviting me.”</p>
<p>Miles dropped his gaze, conscious of how intently Raúl was looking at him. “I’m glad you enjoyed yourself. It wasn’t much—”</p>
<p>Raúl took Miles' hand. “It was more than you know,” he said before leaning in.</p>
<p>Raúl kissed as he did everything, Miles thought. By leading with his heart and letting the rest of him catch up when it could. Miles gasped when Raúl pulled away at last. </p>
<p>Raúl’s eyes were wild. “I have to leave. There’s a meeting I’m already late for. May I see you again?”</p>
<p>“Of course. Bring me to your meeting,” said Miles.</p>
<p>“No,” said Raúl. “I told you, I never should have asked.”</p>
<p>“And I never should have said no. I don’t know why I did, only, I think I desperately wanted to believe nothing had changed when everything <em>has</em> changed, hasn’t it? The world and I both.”</p>
<p>“You’re happy, Miles, and so beautiful. I don’t want that to ever change.”</p>
<p>Miles traced the line of Raúl’s jaw with his hand. “I can be all those things and useful, too.”</p>
<p>Raúl sighed deeply. “If you’re sure.”</p>
<p>“I’ll get my coat.”</p>
<p> </p>
<p>The machine shop was located down a rather dark alley. There were an assortment of rough looking men seated around a work bench looking over heavily marked maps of Europe and a long, handwritten list of names and addresses. </p>
<p>“Sorry, I’m late,” said Raúl, in lightly accented French. “I brought a new recruit.”</p>
<p>“Him?” said one of the brutish looking men in a wool toque. </p>
<p>Miles waved cheerily. The man snorted.</p>
<p>“Yes, him,” said Raúl. “Now where are we with the refugees?”</p>
<p>“We’ve sent off the papers. If our contact makes it to the drop, the next wave should be here in a week,” answered a young man in spectacles. </p>
<p>“Excellent. Any word on the border situation?”</p>
<p>“Trains are still running, but the restrictions are getting tighter. I’m not sure how much longer the border will stay open,” answered another man, cigarette between his lips, his voice gruff. “I say we’ve got as many as we can get at this point.”</p>
<p>“Excuse me,” said Miles. “Who are we getting?”</p>
<p>They looked at him as if he was very simple. “We’re helping people escape out of Germany,” answered Raúl. “Hitler is making life difficult for a long list of people right now. Communists, political dissidents, Jews, to name a few.”</p>
<p>“Of course, of course,” said Miles. “What are you doing with them once they get here?”</p>
<p>The man in the toque laughed. “That’s their problem. We risked our necks to get them out.”</p>
<p>“But where will they live...pardon me I didn’t get your name?”</p>
<p>“I’m Pierre. And they’re Jews. They’re like cockroaches, they can live anywhere.”</p>
<p>Raúl tensed minutely. Miles rolled his eyes theatrically in Pierre’s direction. “Oh, <em>don’t</em> be boring. As you’ve so amply demonstrated, antisemitism is hardly the sole purview of the Germans. There’s been significant backlash against the refugees in Paris already. If you import a good deal more and they wind up vagrants, loitering around the Seine, exactly how long do you think it will take before the French government begins deporting them right back where they came from? And when the officials ask to see their papers, and they discover someone has been going at forging documents hammer and tongs, well, I don’t suppose that sort of attention would be particularly desirable for this little coterie, would it, Pierre?”</p>
<p>Raúl was beaming at Miles as if he’d done something remarkably clever.</p>
<p>“What...what would you suggest?” asked the bespectacled man.</p>
<p>“You are?”</p>
<p>“Jean-Claude.”</p>
<p>“Well, Jean-Claude, I would think it’s obvious. Instead of waiting for wealthy young Englishmen to serendipitously stumble on refugee families and offer them rooms, perhaps it would be a good use of your, I can only assume, <em>extensive</em> network to find hosts for these people <em>before</em> they arrive, and perhaps even send someone to meet them at the train station?”</p>
<p>“Are you volunteering?” asked Pierre.</p>
<p>Miles smirked. “I suppose I could find time in my busy schedule to chair the welcoming committee,” he said.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“That might have been the most productive meeting we’ve had in <em>months</em>,” said Raúl, walking Miles back to the street after the rest of the group had a chance to disperse. </p>
<p>Miles laughed. “That charming bunch? I’m <em>shocked</em> to my core,” he said.</p>
<p>“I still don’t know how you managed to so thoroughly shame Pierre and also convince him to serve as your chauffeur.”</p>
<p>“My dear professor, I once convinced a ferry boat captain to divert course from Portsmouth to Brighton because I preferred a fish shop there. Well, a fish shop <em>owner</em>.”</p>
<p>Raúl laughed. It was another damp, misty evening though it hardly seemed to dampen Raúl’s spirits. He was lighter than Miles could recall having seen him. As they hesitated on the street corner, Miles desperately wanted to invite Raúl back to his apartment, but knew it would be an impossibility with so many guests. </p>
<p>“Come home with me?” Raúl asked. </p>
<p>Miles grinned and took Raúl’s hand. He was about to hail a taxi when he was momentarily blinded by the headlamps of a passing car. Suddenly, it screeched to a halt and pulled over abruptly half upon the curb. Raúl squeezed Miles’ hand reassuringly before subtly putting himself between the vehicle and Miles.</p>
<p>The drivers side door flung itself open and a leg appeared followed by a head and a torso. </p>
<p>Miles felt the world drop out from beneath his feet when he recognized the driver.</p>
<p>“Miles?” the driver asked. “Is that you?”</p>
<p>Miles smiled weakly between the two men. </p>
<p>“Hello, Tiger, dear.”</p>
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